what happens when you want some toast and your kitchen sets on fire and you think your cat is dead and you stand in the street in your dressing gown in the pouring rain, crying. (part 1)

Amazingly, this post was a finalist in Creative Non Fiction‘s blog post competition in Autumn 2010. Yay fire!

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First of all, you think how boring your day is.

That’s your first mistake.

You do some admin-type stuff, like send emails, then decide you’ll have a bit of a break and eat something before you cut your nails, send more emails, and maybe have an early night. Bor-ing.

So you go into the kitchen and put two slices of bread in the toaster, then go back to the living room and sit down and wait for the ping. After about a minute you hear what you think is the ping so you stand up, and then—

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The smoke alarm is going off and you think it’s overreacting again, going off for some toast that was cooked on the lowest setting.

Then you go into the kitchen and there’s smoke everywhere, more smoke than you’ve seen coming from a toaster in your life, and you try to get the toaster to eject the toast and it won’t, so you unplug it and you want to open all the windows but you can’t actually see the windows by this point, so you leave the kitchen and shut the door behind you and all this time the smoke alarm is going:

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

But you can’t find the brush so you can use its handle to switch the smoke alarm off, and you can’t find the cat, so you run down the hall shouting “Pashmina!” and “Where is the damn thing?!” and you finally find the brush in the front porch, and you switch off the smoke alarm, and you breathe out, even though the hall is filling with smoke.

Then you go into the kitchen because surely the smoke will be dissipating since you unplugged the toaster, but just in case, you wrap a towel around your mouth.

And you open the kitchen door and thick, dark grey smoke billows out at you, even though (you now remember) the window in the back wall is already open and the smoke should be thinning out.

Then you hear it: an unmistakable crackling sound.

Flames. FIRE!

And you think there should be something you can do to reverse this, some way of fixing things, but you’re shaking, you can’t stop shaking, and you can’t think what people do in this situation except call 999. And you realise you’re going to have to call 999.

You close the kitchen door, and you’re shouting for the cat again, because you’re going to have to leave the flat and where is she? She’s going to die.

You rush to the phone and dial, and a man says “Slurves?” And you say “Sorry?” And he says “What service please,” and you say “Fire,” and then you have to tell a woman that the toaster sparked and smoke is everywhere and you can’t see anything in there but you heard flames and you think your cat’s going to die and she says she’s sorry about your cat but you’ve got to get yourself out of there now, do you understand. And she asks if anyone else is there with you and you say no but you think,  “Oh, god. I’m going to have to tell the upstairs neighbours to get out.”

So you pick up your laptop and find your old mobile phone that doesn’t have any credit that you’re using if your mum needs to message you because you don’t know where the charger for your Nokia is, and you dash for the door, all the time shouting for Pashmina and wondering where the hell she is.

You decide all you can do is hope she has a safe hiding place and shut all the doors, so you do, and you rush to the front door and step outside, then you realise it’s pouring with rain, and you’re wearing the thin shoes you use as slippers, and a dressing gown over an old t-shirt and purple velour jogging bottoms, and this is not an outfit you wanted anyone to see you in. But you have no other option.

You wrap your laptop in your dressing gown, and hold it close, and you scurry round to your neighbours’ and ring the bell and they take ages to answer the door because they don’t know there’s a fire. And you say the toaster has gone up in smoke and you think its on fire now and you’ve called the fire brigade and the lady neighbour (henceforth known as She) acts like you just call round to tell her anecdotes from your crazy life all the time, and just chuckles and replies, “Oh! So you’re having quite a day.” So you ask if you can go in and use their phone as you don’t have any credit on your mobile and you need to ring your mum ‘cos she’s in town, and as She walks ahead of you into the living room she’s shouting to her husband (He), telling him what you’re doing there, but all she seems to have taken in is that the toaster sparked and you haven’t got any credit on your phone.

Without taking his eyes off the TV, He asks if there’s anything he can do to help, and you say no thanks, but they might have to leave their flat in a minute and the fire brigade is on the way. But maybe you seem too calm or the TV’s too loud because he doesn’t answer. So you call your mum and of course she’s not there so you have to leave a message which starts “Don’t panic, but…”

And then She says “You know, I can smell smoke.”

And you say, “Yes, our toaster’s on fire.” And she says, “It’s still on fire? Have you phoned the fire brigade?” And you say you have and you don’t know what’s taking them so long. And you walk into their hall and it’s filling with smoke, and you say “We should get out of here now,” And She says “Oh dear,” and tells He they have to go, and the TV is finally quiet, and you go ahead of them and hear them shouting to each other about umbrellas, and you slop over to the back kitchen window, your shoes sticking in the mud, and you close it because that might keep the fire from spreading, or maybe it won’t, but you don’t know what else to do. And He walks round to the side kitchen window, which is closed, and he says he’ll go inside and check on things and you shout “No! It’s on FIRE, don’t go in!” and you wonder why you’re the only one taking this seriously and acting like an adult even though they’re over twice your age.

And then He says “I can see flames! They’re really high” and you don’t want to look because you don’t want to see your home on fire, but you can see the orange flickering and you want to cry. You pace back and forth, still clutching your laptop under your dressing gown, which is heavy and wet, the rain pounding down on you. And your mum calls on the old mobile and you burst into tears when you hear her voice, and walk up the street crying into the receiver, wailing that “Pashmina will DIE and it’s all my fault and I don’t know why the fire engine isn’t here yet.” And she tells you later that she doesn’t understand anything you said except that she should call the fire brigade and check they’re coming, so she does. You hang up and you’re in tears and soaking wet and He is standing on your path and She is standing on their path, both under their umbrellas, looking up at the smoke and flames.

And then She asks you again if you phoned the fire brigade and you say yes through gritted teeth. Ten seconds later, He asks if you phoned them, and you snap and yell, “YES! I just wish they’d get here now!” And then a minute later you hear NEE-NAW NEE-NAW and you breathe out, and He says “I can hear them now” and you don’t reply, you just will the fire engine to turn the corner, you can almost see it now… then it turns the corner and it’s not a fire engine at all, it’s the police. And you think Oh God, and you want to scream, “What good are you?!”

But then they ask if you want to go and sit in their car, and you’re awash with gratitude as well as rain,  so you slip and slosh your way up the road, your trousers soaked and covered in mud and your shoes so wet they’re dripping,  and you collapse into the back seat with a squelch and put your laptop down next to you. And you can’t stop thinking, please don’t let Pashmina be dead. Please let the fire brigade get here soon.

Don’t panic! Part two is here.